DEIMOS
He watched the crowd billow and wane, flourish and flock, intermingle with one another before tending to their other duties – shaking their heads, smiling, shrugging shoulders, hastening off in other directions before another interval arrived. And all the while he breathed in the contortions of acceptance as best he could; a difficult trapping for a heathen and fiend who’d spent lifetimes angled away from it. Instead, while talons remained clutching to the sapling, he could listen to Chulane, and the conversations he’d had with the Harpy. Deimos had known better; never second-guessed the ningo farmer and his devotion, had nearly said as much to Kiada when she shared her understandable apprehension. The alterations didn’t seem to bother Chulane, and that readily-available belief, faith, and credence was likely exactly what she’d needed, required, and would continue to snag, grasp, and hold onto in the coming days. The Sword had prospered his own credences and convictions, a steadfast nod in the wake of not losing her again. There was some trepidation in answering that particular oath and vow – because he knew better. Because he’d lost and lost and lost and despite scratching his way to the surface, the anchor, the mooring, was too great.
Not now though. The surface couldn’t reach him now.
The inquiry that followed though was a sharp one, and he continued to glance towards horizons and stones, no movement in his still, stoic calm. It’d been an armor-piercing rumination he’d molded and melded into his mind once the occurrences, the miracles, had settled in, once the triumph and glory of having her back had carved its way into his heart. Because the world was altering. Because there were other forces at play. Because they still didn’t know what was going on, and the implications were very grave. I remain suspicious. He could look past the benevolence – this was a figure who wouldn’t have survived thriving on kindness and compassion. He’d lived in ruthlessness, savagery, and Machiavellian voids for a long while, and wondered where the ritual sputtered, ceased, and desisted in warmhearted deliberations, or cold-blooded calculations by the goddess. I was grateful to the Voice for being there for Rexanna. And perhaps I should be now for Kiada. But he wasn’t, and the blunt truth flickered and unfurled between them. But I cannot stop wondering if this was a deceptive, manipulative ploy. To raise up her own army.
Only then did he turn his head, eagle eyes pinpointed on the fellow avian. How was she able to snag at souls from Mort’s realm? Not a question for the other man to answer, but to muse, to mull over. Have you heard of the Order?
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
